It is not often we share/promote network programming. Let alone shows we’ve not even watched yet. However, this new series seems to be addressing some of the most important hidden topics experienced by the vast majority: the need for authentic connections, coping with hopelessness and depression, finding meaning in life, how every moment – every choice – matters and impacts others in often unforeseeable ways, facing our fears, and learning how to tend to the wounds in others while we heal our own hearts and minds. Here’s hoping the creators and producers are able to bring forward a show that opens the door for conversations about these things to be more freely spoken about.

Yesterday’s Mother’s Day I was pampered by my loves in the morning. They made me breakfast and served it to me in bed. The entire day was filled with relaxation and fun, in nature, with friends, with my loves, and with new family.Life on Lancey Street is beautiful. Our gardens are beginning to bloom, our children’s laughter can be heard in the air. Our friendships keep deepening and our circle keeps growing. Last night, after a day of all of us Moms being able to rest and simply enjoy the day, 17 of us gathered to share dinner together. Then at the end of the evening walked across the street to our homes, satisfied and happy. My wish for the world is that everyone is able to experience and live in this kind of beloved community.My wish is that everyone is able to love and be loved.And to let go of the tethers to anything that prevents this to come into being. There are reasons for which I will hold the telling of in other postings, but Yesterday’s Mother’s Day was a first. I have been a mother for 26 years. In all that time I have never once really celebrated Mother’s Day. Nor, been truly celebrated on Mother’s Day in such unequivocal ways by those who reside with me. Until yesterday. For this and a thousand more things, I am grateful. I accept this gift of change. I accept this time of loving and being loved.

“There is an oft-shared story in my family about a gentleman—a friend of the family, apparently—who pulled my grandmother aside when she was only five years old and attending the funeral of her very own mother who had just passed away from a prolonged illness. He handed my little-girl grandmother a mirror and invited her to look into it, asking her, ‘Do you see that face? Those eyes? Look carefully into that face, because that young girl you see in the mirror is someone you are going to need to look out for, to listen to, and to be a mother to. You are going to need to do it yourself, now. You are capable of this.’”